


Play On, Or Something Like That

by MadameFolie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Grand Prix Final Banquet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 18:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10792029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: Victor’s read fairy tales like this. At the grand ball the prince meets an enchanting stranger. They dance through the night – but as soon as the clock chimes midnight, the dream dissipates. The band continues to play and the revelers dance, but the stranger is gone and with them the– the something– the something special.Or, Victor and Yuuri meet many times, at many banquets.





	Play On, Or Something Like That

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DW kinkmeme. Kudos to OP for their excellent taste.

i.  
The hand finds his ankle from underneath the table allotted for empty glasses. When he looks down there is a giggle and a wriggling of fingers around his heel; they make a game of it, sneaking through the channels of the tablecloths to try and steal as many drinks as they can into their little hideout. When they are too silly to stand, his companion –eyes shining with mischief– pushes his lips to Victor’s. When he begins to laugh, Victor shushes him with his own lips. They are the last to leave the banquet hall, fingers woven together until he has to break away for the bathroom. He steps back outside, thus relieved, only to find himself alone.  
  
  
  
  
ii.  
They are both drunk, slaked fit to outshine the stars, and neither can seem to quite catch their breath. Well. Victor certainly knows his excuse, what with the stranger wresting it from him every chance he gets. He cradles Victor’s head in his legs as Victor touches himself. He’s completely bare before his stranger who strokes his hair and touches petal-soft fingers to his lips. It’s as if he’s starved for the feel of Victor under his hands.  
  
  
“Again, please,” Victor begs. The stranger, with his kind features, doesn’t mind. He kisses Victor as requested, all Victor needs to do is ask. He tips his chin to bare his throat to this dream lover of his. A tongue curling on his prickling skin. His shoulders held steady in a gentle grasp. Wine warm in his veins, dusting his breast red with arousal. “More.”  
  
  
Again. Again. It’s not nearly enough.  
  
  
  
  
iii.  
It really shouldn’t surprise him that a skater could be so strong. He’s seen Mila’s lifts, certainly, and there’s a great deal of strength training involved in nearly everyone’s basic regimen. But his stranger, his darling stranger, is so sure of his grip. The hands on his hips don’t falter, they guide him and spin him and lean him back so that Victor’s not convinced it’s entirely because of the champagne that the world’s gone topsy-turvy around him.  
  
  
“Hey. Hey.” His lovely stranger is slurring and sweet. “Do you….d'ya know how to quickstep?” Victor blinks away the fog of drink. Is that…a euphemism for something?  
  
  
“….I don’t _think_ so,” he replies. The stranger puts his lips together like he’s trying to hold in a laugh. But it bursts out anyway, sharp and loud and terrible in its contagion.  
  
  
“Okay. That’s fine. Okay.” The stranger’s breath is warm on his skin. “Jus’ do what I do. We’re gonna show these nerds how ya _really_ party.”  
  
  
  
  
iv.  
The world looks ever so slightly smaller from up on top of a podium. And nowhere has it felt more real than from this vantage point on his knees, his charming stranger’s heavy cock braced against his cheek. Victor likes the smell and the feel of him. The space between his legs is heat and skin and Victor feels he’s half as drunk on this as the banquet’s libations. He tries to wink for his companion, but he’s too shaken by his own want and both his eyes fall shut as he rests his forehead against the crook of his hip. Even with his eyes closed, he can feel the stranger fumble the bottle to his lips for a swig. It’s insane. It’s magnificent. He mouths at the root of the stranger’s cock. The stranger moans and drinks again, rolling his hips for more, more–  
  
  
“Ah, give me some, too,” Victor tells him. There’s some poem about this he thinks he’s heard. ‘If wine be the music of–’ Or was it the other way around? Something like that. He raises his hands to receive his stranger’s offering. It’s too dark to see. But who needs sight when every other sensation around him is so vivid? The champagne tastes like glittering gold light itself. He coughs and has to set the bottle down.  
  
  
His companion’s hand grips the hair above the nape of his neck, hard. The pull burns his scalp.  
  
  
“We’re not done,” his stranger reminds him. Of course. Of course.  
  
  
  
  
v.  
Victor’s read fairy tales like this. At the grand ball the prince meets an enchanting stranger. They dance through the night – but as soon as the clock chimes midnight, the dream dissipates. The band continues to play and the revelers dance, but the stranger is gone and with them the– the something– the something special.  
  
  
The magic, Victor thinks, looking sideways from the pillow at his glass slipper. It isn’t very romantic, the crumpled paper bag. Inside is an onion bagel with eggs and cheese and yet more onions. Quite a lot of onions. It tastes like his grandmother’s house. The coffee beside it has long gone cold since it was deposited. Ah, well. Regardless. It tastes perfectly fine with a packet of sugar. He can spare it, it’ll be a victory treat. Of course, it would have been a much nicer breakfast, shared.  
  
  
His enchanting stranger hadn’t even the decency to leave him some parting marks. More’s the pity.  
  
  
Christophe is beside himself to discover he is short a breakfast partner. He whisks Victor away in spite of it to bear witness to his morning coffee. The years are catching up with him: his head’s pounding hard enough that he wears his sunglasses to shield himself from the cruel sun. Christophe chuckles, checking his e-mail with composed flicks of his wrist.  
  
  
“Is the champagne joining us for breakfast, too?” He locks his screen and slips the phone into his breast pocket. Victor stirs his tea. “If I’d known, I’d have ordered coffee for three.”  
  
  
He should say something clever. His skull aches.  
  
  
“Christophe,” he sighs. “I’m….tired.” The shop administers sugar in charming little cubes. He’s already gone over the limit of what indulgences Yakov will allow, but he releases another into his drink to watch the tea eat away at its edges. “Do you ever feel like that?”  
  
  
Christophe frowns; whatever troubles him, it doesn’t deter him from his coffee.  
  
  
“Victor, darling. You do this every time.” It’s not untrue. These parties have a way of sinking their teeth into him, he really shouldn’t drink so much. It makes him sentimental. Being sentimental makes him poor company. (The years really are catching up with him.) He keeps stirring idly, the steel clinking against porcelain like a bell although the sugar won’t dissolve any further.  
  
  
“I’m sorry,” he agrees. “The next time, then.” Less drink, less stewing. “Next time, it will be different.”


End file.
